A Fishy Café

Lemon was on the backseat of a scooter being driven along.

Up there, the midday sun gave out a sharp oppressive heat. The saturated humidity made of the air her queasy. Her body had surrendered and was determined to drain her.

But it wasn’t all that bad. For the clear deep blue sky pleased her and the breeze passing her face as the scooter stirred up the still air relieved certain discomforts. What Lemon was experiencing typified the love-hate relation people hold towards the ambience of the tropics.  It was unclear whether she was aware of this general consensus.

Lemon did not ask where she was being taken for she had full trust in the rider. It must have been Liang, or it could have been Yu, Lemon thought to herself later. Whoever the rider was, she was someone Lemon felt comfortable with. She had no thread of fear or doubt about this journey. This sense of security and affirmation was not common to her.

They past over a bridge and a vast area of wasteland was waiting ahead of them. In the furthest distance was a water tower, it’s distinct figure standing against the horizon.  Buildings that once symbolised the modern new era lay tarnished in the foreground. Lemon could not tell whether any creature, let alone human beings, still occupied this terrain. 

As they drew closer, it suddenly dawned on Lemon that this was an open market. The signs were crystal clear: the chicken caged beside a stall that was to be chosen by the customers, then to be slaughtered and prepared on the spot; the undesirable leaves of a day old vegetable that were tossed and piled around a corner. The bloodstains of certain meat products infiltrated the gaps of the pavement and left a layer of grease that would forever rest on the top of the road.

The past events were all there written into the landscape where no living creature stood now. To some, it would bring up a sense of horror but for Lemon, she deciphered the remnants with fascination.

Before reaching the water tower, the rider took a turn towards a concrete block, typical of seventies creation. Its original creamy white façade was now marred by the long trails of water stain. The scooter continued into the ground floor of the building. This sudden change of light caused Lemon to lose eyesight for a moment. Since she could not see, she absorbed the pungent fishy smell with a certain curiosity.

When Lemon opened her eyes again, she was in the gallery of a manor house. An extravagant chandelier dangled from the high ceiling and portraits of dead rich nobles lingered on the walls. This gallery had been transformed into a coffee shop and there in the corner waiting for her was Mother.

Mother was here to discuss educational issues. Lemon did not know this but Mother had gone back to primary school. However, she was not entirely happy with the teaching and was about to write to the Minister of Education.

“How do they decide what to learn in a certain age?” This was Mother’s first question followed by “when would we start learning about abstract concepts?”

Lemon did not know whether Mother wanted her to engage in a discussion or would prefer her to provide a definitive answer, so she reminded quiet.

“I saw your tutor the other night.” Mother said.

“Which one?”

“The one from when you were 14 years old. She was a single mother.”

“Oh, her.” Lemon acknowledged, remembering her, but she did not follow up with a question for she had no interest in this tutor.

But Mother did not notice her lack of enthusiasm and carried on speaking: “She is in a lesbian band now and was rumoured to be seeing a paper-cut rabbit, also a band member.” Mother sipped tea from her cup, Lemon noticed that she had started to use nail varnish. “And,” Mother lowered her voice and leaned towards Lemon, “I was that told her son had regressed into a huge, giant baby, a fat one.”

Mother was waiting to see her reaction but Lemon refused to let her expression betray her thoughts. In fact, Lemon was delighted to find out that she had no comment to make on other people’s lives.

Her indifference certainly irritated Mother, for her face now turned stern and showed a trace of contempt, “What are you studying at the moment then? My sister wouldn’t let me off if you don’t explain properly this time what kind of subject you are engaged in.”

This was the question Lemon dreaded to hear and the reason she had avoided contact with Mother for such a long time.

She would like to leave the conversation as it was and go away again with the rider, out of this overbearing line of enquiry and out of the grandeur of this mansion in disguise. Out to the open space where the odour of dead fish lingered and out while it was still possible to reach the water tower before the sun went down.

However, the trustworthy rider was nowhere to be seen.

A Room by the Sea

In the beginning, Lemon rented a room in the 9 Legs lighthouse.

It was the first thing she saw, the only thing standing on the beach as she walked through the yellow weeds. “These flowers belong to the species of Aster.” Lemon thought to herself. But she did not know the actual name. She probably wouldn’t find it out either.

There was a French window in her room, looking out to the sea. Hers was the Red Room, for it was on the red side of the building.

The room opposite – there were only two rooms in the 9 Legs – was the Black room; again, so named for it was on the black side of this lighthouse. A single mother occupied the Black Room with her two children, a boy and a girl. They could not be more than ten years of age, thought Lemon to herself. The neighbour did not seem to have the intention of making her acquaintance, nevertheless, she was pleasantly polite when they passed each other on the stairs.

It was never confirmed to Lemon how accurate it would be to judge the period she arrived at by the costumes of the people she met. Therefore, Lemon would have to decide for herself. Both children were dressed in Edwardian fashion, the girl in a white lacy dress with black stockings and the boy, a sailor suit. Their clothes were made from fine fabric and the finishing was of a high standard. It would be the work of an experienced and sophisticated tailor who took pride in his profession. However, any kind of delicate needlework could not disguise the signs of wear or the faded colour from repeated usage.

It was very likely to be the early twentieth century then. Lemon considered the credibility of her judgement, but quickly, she had moved onto another query, “Why would a woman of high social ranking come here and live without valuable belongings?”

It was a highly legitimate line of questioning that would shed more light into Lemon’s domain, but it was not in her nature to think a thing through. Rather, leaving the question hanging made it all the more amusing, as unsolved mystery offer more thrills.

Returning one day, Lemon noticed the children looking out from the Red Room. Their mother sat quietly in the background. The girl, who was the younger of the two, occasionally licked the toffee in her hand, otherwise, there were no other actions to be observed from this family.

Their eyes stared out vacantly into the distance, or ad infinitum, one might say, for there was nothing beyond the horizon. The seagulls, the sunset or individuals dotted along the beach did not stir them in the slightest. They would not have noticed Lemon either, it was assumed.

By then, Lemon’s attention had drifted away, seized by a minor abnormality. For the sand across which she had trudged never registered a shoe print of hers. Nor did it capture any trace of other wonders. It was as if this space did not intend to arrest any evidence of a visit by any creature, living or dead.

Lemon pushed a message through the door to the inhabitants of the Black Room. “The children are always welcome to the Red Room. Maybe we can have a small gathering as well.”

The single mother replied the next morning when Lemon was out, sending her gratitude without promising any definitive interaction. That night, Lemon looked at the moon alone.

Soon after, there came a visitor to the single mother.

Lemon caught her talking leisurely with a young woman on a picnic bench. This young woman wore a full safari suit and came on a bicycle. She was free-spirited and enthusiastic and brought sunshine to this place. If it were not for her unmatched sandal she would be such a perfect cliché. Lemon gave a sneer that was not considered professional. She did not realise at the time.

Lemon sensed that they were talking about education. The safari-suited woman was trying to engage the single mother in starting a school, replicating the experimental work she had carried out in the place for which she had recently returned. The single mother listened intently, occasionally sharing one or two of her thoughts. It was unfortunate, thought Lemon, that she talked in such a discreet way that is was too challenging to decipher. Otherwise, the single mother drank her lemonade from a straw and was content to let the other woman enthuse her passion out onto the world.

Lemon was very tempted to join their company, for she considered herself useful in contributing ideas on educational matters. But it was clear to her that these two independent young women did not want to be disturbed.

As such, Lemon went back to her room and looked out at the moon for another night. The idea of inviting the children around did not cross her mind.